


His Best Time

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-30
Updated: 2008-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House provokes Wilson's imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Best Time

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by all_grrrl_space!

“I want you,” the man on the screen mouthed next to her ear, “_Now_.” Mouth met mouth and they pressed up against the glass elevator wall; a hitching up of the skirt and an unzipping of the pants later, they fucked, grunting and moaning.

Wilson shifted on the couch, his right hand nervously clutching the arm-rest.

House, though, on his side of the couch, was relaxed, his arm resting on the couch’s back. Wilson was aware how close his elbow was. “Pffft,” House said, “As if an elevator were the strangest place to get it on. Amateurs.”

“Oh?” Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the TV screen. Just how long was this scene going to last? “And you’ve done so much better than that?”

“In an MRI scanner,” House said, smugness personified.

“Better hope Cuddy never hears of it.”

“Eh, it was before her time.” Then it was probably with Stacy. Wilson remembered those first few months; House had spent the whole time grinning like the cat that had eaten an entire flock of canaries. Wilson couldn’t help being a bit bitter; he’d been on the last legs of his second marriage.

Wilson could imagine them: Stacy on top, probably, her back bent low, to keep from hitting the top of the scanner, her hair streaming over House’s face, her hips rolling. And House, rolling right back, on his elbows, mouthing her breasts, her collar bone--

“Still better hope she never hears of it,” Wilson said, before he’d let too long a pause pass by. “You’re reckless enough with the MRI as it is. One more stunt and you’d be doing nothing but clinic duty.”

“More like she’d drag me in there,” House smirked. And that wasn’t true, Wilson knew, but he could imagine that, too-- Cuddy replaced Stacy in his mental vision, though now House was more focused on her ass, his hands cupping those cheeks, massaging and fondling. He _did_ always go on about Cuddy’s butt.

Wilson shifted in his seat again. He had to stop letting his imagination get away from him when he wasn’t in a position to take care of the results. Better stop now, while his balls were only starting to tighten. He knew the signs. He couldn’t let this go further.

“How about you? Your strangest place?”

“Saskatoon,” Wilson answered automatically. “Had a girlfriend from there.”

“No fair,” House protested, “I told you _mine_.”

“I didn’t really ask,” Wilson pointed out, but answered anyway: “A car wash.”

His first wife, Kristin, had a thing for water; if it was wet, it turned her on. They spent a lot of times in baths, showers, pools, Jacuzzis, water parks, especially in the beginning and the end.

The car wash had been one of his last-ditch attempts to keep the sex interesting. He’d been nervous, knowing they only had a couple of minutes, the soap spraying against the windows, and he’d been unable to relax. His frustration passed onto her, and however much she ground on his dick, whispering, “c’mon, c’mon,” neither one came. When the wash ended, he was only half-hard and she sat in the passenger’s seat, arms crossed and staring out the window.

House, not knowing the less savory details, whistled. “That’s better than I expected.”

“You should try it sometime,” he suggested, mostly to better hide how bad the experience had been. But in saying so, his mind automatically envisioned what it’d be like: House in Kristin’s place, above Wilson.

House would hook himself onto his lap, not to get off, but rather to purposefully tease Wilson. He’d rub his ass against Wilson’s dick, and Wilson would get rock hard. Hard _and_ annoyed, because he’d want to fuck House then and there and not be able to. But, even though he’d only frustrate himself further, Wilson wouldn’t be able to resist grinding back, kissing House under his chin, around his cheeks, the stubble rough against his mouth.

God, worse than letting his imagination get away from him was to let House star in a sudden fantasy. Wilson had to stop doing that, especially when he was actually _with_ House.

“I’d try it,” House said, interrupting Wilson’s train of thought. “But I’d probably slip off the motorcycle. And anyway,” House continued, his voice lowering. “Strangest doesn’t mean best.”

It was bait. Wilson had spent enough time with House to recognize that. Nine times out of ten, it ended in mockery. Yet he bit, every single time. “Is this where you tell me about your best time?”

“You’re smart, for a doctor.” Was it his imagination, or did House scoot closer to him? At the very least, he smirked. Wilson didn’t like that smirk. That was the look House got before pulling a prank. “Best time, hands down, was on this very couch.” House patted a spot between them, only centimeters away, and Wilson’s breath caught. He half-hoped House would stop, half-hoped he’d go on. “It was a late afternoon, just like now, the last of the sunlight over us--“

Wilson shifted his legs, hoping that might hide the beginning of his hard-on. Forget the fantasies; this was going to be _much_ worse.

House’s voice dropped to a lower still pitch, his words throaty. Wilson could barely believe how intimate he was being. In fact, he _didn’t_ believe it. And yet Wilson was still enraptured, hanging on every word. “I was freezing, but the sex warmed me right up, you can be sure--“

Who was it with? Stacy? They hadn’t been living in this apartment at the time. Cuddy? But that’d been a college affair. Not Cameron, since they’d never slept together. Maybe a hooker, but that didn’t help, because then Wilson had no way to know what she looked like.

“We were half-drunk, and probably we wouldn’t have done it otherwise--“

Not a hooker, then, if they were both drunk. No matter how hard he thought, Wilson couldn’t imagine who it’d been with. And, unable to come up with a believable candidate, Wilson suddenly imagined it was _himself_. Himself, with House bent over the couch’s back, ass up high in the air, and Wilson on his feet, pounding in and out, his hands slipping on House’s hips from all the sweat--

His hard-on was on at full force.

There was no hiding it, but Wilson politely put his hands over his crotch anyway. Damn House. He wouldn’t be surprised if House had purposefully not mentioned the person’s name, so Wilson would pick whatever person turned him on the most. Come to think of it, the story probably wasn’t even _real_.

House’s eyes flicked down to Wilson’s crotch, and a smug smile spread across his face. He leaned back into the couch, this close to laughing. “So, yeah, that was my best time. Yet.”

“Gotta go to the bathroom,” Wilson said mechanically, and practically fled.

Wilson locked the door-- he didn’t put it past House to come in and taunt him, or something-- and tried to unbuckle his pants, but his hands were trembling, from his need, and it took him a couple of tries. Then it was just a slip of a button and a pull of zipper before he could grab his dick, freeing it from the prison of his jeans. That alone felt amazing.

Wilson ran a finger over the slit at the tip of his dick and held back a moan. House must’ve known what he was up to, but that didn’t mean Wilson had to make it any more obvious than necessary. He rubbed the slit again, his fingers getting wet with pre-come, while his other hand fondled his balls, up tight against his body.

Already he could tell this was going to be one of his best orgasms in recent memory.

He kicked off his jeans and boxers, leaned against the sink, and, eyes closed, fisted his dick, elaborating his latest fantasy: House would be begging for it, begging for more, begging for Wilson to fuck him harder and harder--

Stuck on the image of screwing House’s hot tight, ass, Wilson came, his jism shooting into his cupped hand, unable to hold back a grunt. God. He came and came, still thinking of House greedily pushing his ass back against Wilson’s cock, till his hand was covered in come.

Wilson did finally stop coming, but it took him a few moments to recover, gasping through the after-shocks. Jesus, thinking about House always got him hard, but this time, having House’s voice guide him through half the fantasy, right on the place where the alleged sex had supposedly happened, it was that much better.

Not for the first time, Wilson seriously considered trading in the fantasies in favor of actually sleeping with House; but however much he wanted it, Wilson wasn’t ready to go there. To start with, Wilson wasn’t sure there was anything more to House’s innuendos than the chance to mock him. And even if there were more substance to House’s insinuations, their friendship was challenging enough; a sexual relationship could only be worse.

Once he’d ridden the last waves of his orgasm, Wilson pulled back up his boxers and jeans, grabbed a few squares of toilet paper, wiping at the floor where the come had fallen, and then washed his hands with soap. For good measure, he brushed his hair. With his hair tidy and in place, it gave the illusion that he _hadn’t_ lost his composure.

To complete that illusion, Wilson flushed the toilet.

When he left the bathroom, House was still on the couch, flipping through the channels. He lit up, though, when Wilson returned. “So,” he asked cheerfully, “How about _your_ best time?”

Wilson grabbed the remote control, flipping the channel to CNN. No danger of anything arousing or suggestive appearing on _that_. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

“For today,” House said in a sing-song voice, and Wilson couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head.

***

Author's Post-Notes:

1\. This? I've actually wanted to write for _two years_. It's a bit strange to get it over and done with.  
2\. This was total PWP. I am not used to that. /queasy/  
3\. If I think too hard, I can so see problems with Wilson objectifying women in this fic. &gt;_&gt;


End file.
